


All There's Left To Do

by RedheadAmongWolves



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Background Relationships, Excalibur, Families of Choice, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Medieval Times Dinner Theater lol, Modern Era, Reincarnation, Reunions, because it's been a long time comin, but overall an extraordinarily gentle fic lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-19 03:27:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29619882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedheadAmongWolves/pseuds/RedheadAmongWolves
Summary: In which Merlin gets a little homesick while waiting for Arthur to return. So he gets a job at Medieval Times.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 140





	All There's Left To Do

**Author's Note:**

> not ~entirely~ happy with how this turned out but i was tired of poking at it so!! here!! 
> 
> i’ve never worked at medieval times as is plainly obvious but ,,, that sixth grade field trip changed my life and i kept the carnation i got from the blue knight on my bedside table until it went moldy
> 
> title from love story (taylor’s version) because i'm crying

“We don’t usually have a wizard role,” the Medieval Times manager— a nice guy named Perry with long sandy-blonde hair and gauges, who is probably fresh out of university with a degree in history and no other idea what to do with it— tells him as he looks down at Merlin’s resumé. 

“Oh, I don’t want to be onstage,” Merlin assures him. “I’m more a behind-the-scenes guy. I’m really good with horses, and I can polish armor, or do laundry. Hell, I can just be a server, really. I’ve done a lot of that in my day.” 

Perry still looks skeptical. “Your name is really... _Merlin,_ though?” 

“Yeah. Weird parents.”

“Huh.” After a tick, Perry sets the resumé to the side. “We don’t really get a lot of Brits applying, either. Why don’t you go for, like, a Ren Faire?” 

Because the nearest Renaissance Faire in Orlando, Florida is called the _Lady of the Lakes Faire,_ and that hit a little too fuckin close to home for Merlin, thanks. 

“Did those for a while, actually, but the hours are pretty inconsistent,” is what he says instead. “You all are open year-round.”

And Merlin has a one-room flat now, with controlled heating and everything, but even Florida can get a little cold in the winter months, and cooped up indoors with only his thoughts to distract him? Well. Merlin’s had enough winters to know the key to mildly successful survival is distraction. 

That, and Disney’s not currently hiring. Which is probably why Perry is here, too, history degree be damned. 

Finally, Perry shrugs, probably coming to the conclusion he doesn't really care about Merlin’s miserable life story that led him to this tiny mildewy office at a dinner theater. “Well, we don’t really need another server or stagehand at the moment, but we did just have a booth open up. How are you at merchandise?”

Which is how Merlin, the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the face of the earth, finds himself selling plastic tiaras and light-up roses to sixth graders in the Medieval Times lobby.

He doesn’t mind it; he’s had worse jobs over the centuries, really. This beats resetting bowling alley pins or being a mall Santa by a million miles. And he gets a uniform again, which is fun: a dark blue tunic with red stitching at the collar, because no one ever accused the Fates of not having a sense of humor. 

The guests are pleasant enough, because they’re mostly exhausted parents and sunburned kids who just buy their souvenirs and move on to find their seats and harass the waitstaff. Merlin does little tricks when he can, like making the light-up roses glow forever, or turning the plastic gems in the tiaras into real ones, not that he tells anyone. It’s mostly to stave off boredom, but he also enjoys the wide-eyed expressions of the boys and girls who hand him their damp five dollars in exchange for their glittering wares. 

Once the theater doors shut and the show starts, he’s allowed to go watch the performance, and he even gets his food for free. He’d grown used to utensils as a member of the royal household, but it’s a nice, nostalgic trip down memory lane to his childhood to drink tomato bisque straight from the bowl, or eat chicken he didn’t have to prepare. A little more seasoned than it was in his day, but homey nevertheless. 

Unlike most his coworkers, he’s not going to school or Disney auditions, so he picks up all the midday shifts no one else wants, since that’s when the school field trips filter in, and the weekend late shows, which are all drunk college kids. So his hours pass watching the valiant technicolor knights fight with fake swords, competing for honor and the beautiful princess’ hand, and he tries to pretend his eyes are just burning because of all the dust that kicks up under the horses’ hooves. 

He’s tried to live a good, quiet immortal life, while he waits. He’s been all sorts of things through the years: a doctor, a professor, a librarian, a farmer. A nurse during the Great War, then the second one. He shies away from the spotlights of history, but he can’t help nudging humankind along once in a while, dropping a well-timed apple here, a convenient lightning strike there.

He moves cities every few years, never staying in one place long enough to set down roots or make friends, because even if he shifts his disguise to grow along with them, he’s perfectly aware that eventually he’ll outlive every one of them, and he’s really tired of watching people he loves die. 

He stuck to Europe for a while, but always left a wide berth around Avalon. It never felt quite right to go back. After a while, it just made him too sad to watch the very ground beneath his feet change, so he set off for the rest of the world. 

But now, well. He’s tired.

He’s in America because he’s been everywhere else half a dozen times, and he’s in Florida because he figures that’s where you’re supposed to go when your life veers into a ditch. 

Plus, there’s something here. He doesn’t know what it is, but he can feel it, thrumming through his toes every time he steps barefoot on the hot sand or brittle grass. It’s beating, like a pulse. Sometimes he thinks he can hear it, but it’s always just out of range, like when you think someone’s called your name only there’s no one there when you turn around.

Until he figures out what it is, he has to make rent somehow.

He’s only been at his little merch booth for a month before Perry busts into the lobby one afternoon looking frazzled, bee-lining for Merlin the second he spots him. The knights’ primary stagehand has apparently up and quit upon receiving her callback for the role of Cindy Lou Who over at Universal Studios, dramatic middle-finger walk-off and all, and they already have three call-outs and won’t Merlin please come save the day? Or something to that effect. 

And that’s how Merlin finds himself being hurried backstage, which is much livelier than he’d envisioned for an outdated dinner theater, and is entrusted with an armful of armor and instructions to get the knights show ready, pronto. After so many years in Camelot’s chaotic and frequently homicidal court, Merlin works very well under pressure, so he sucks in a breath and gets to work.

He gets fastenings done up and shields and swords in gloved hands in what must be record time, because the knights give him wide-eyed nods and have to linger behind the curtain for a few minutes before the spotlights cue their introductions. But in Merlin’s defense, their mock chainmail is literal tons easier to maneuver than Arthur’s armor had been, and he doesn’t have to guarantee— even though he still does, naturally— that these knights in his charge aren’t going to end up skewered on a lance, since they’re all just actors with flashy choreography. Each time he’d dressed Arthur for battle, it was with the promise that his king would be safe and sound within his silver shell. 

Merlin swallows against the lump in his throat that any thought of Arthur instantly brings. Fuck, why did he come to work here again?

After the show, Perry calls him into his office. 

“The knights wanted me to pass along their thanks. Rob” —the White Knight, Merlin remembers— “said he couldn’t remember the last time he came offstage and _didn’t_ have a rash. Which, A) too much information, and B) makes it all the easier for me to find Jen’s replacement. You want to keep your booth, or do you wanna come back here?”

And yeah, Merlin has grown rather fond of his booth, but his heart is still beating fast with the adrenaline of the evening, his hands still buzzing with the joy of feeling _useful,_ and he’s almost dizzy from the terribly familiar smell of horses and must and silver polish, the ringing of swords still in his ears, and it’s all so much like _home_ that of course Merlin already knows his answer. 

“Back here sounds great,” Merlin says, and just like that he’s got his first Medieval Times promotion. Or, a lateral move, at least. 

He likes being a stagehand. He still doesn’t get to work with the horses directly, which is a bummer, but he does get to occasionally help the stablehands fix any saddle blanket tears or lopsided feather headpieces. Mostly his job revolves around getting the knights battle-ready, helmets gleaming and fake swords ready to shower sparks. He gets to know the knights and other cast members, and while he’s not quite letting himself make friends, it’s nice to be chummy with people again. 

Of course, just as he’s settling into his new position, that’s when he discovers what’s been calling him here, and the whole world flips upside down. 

It’s a regular Tuesday when the Green Knight breaks his sword during rehearsals. Ordinarily this wouldn’t be a problem, because they keep a handful of spares in the storage closet backstage, only just the week before the senior manager— Perry’s boss, and a proper “numbskull,” according to Perry— had lent the extras out for his daughter’s school play. So here is Merlin, waiting patiently as the prop master— a pot-bellied man named Larry— roots around in the overstuffed closet for a sword not even a high school production of _Twelfth Night_ would have accepted.

 _“Aha,_ there it is! I knew we had it somewhere. God, this thing’s been in here for ages. It’s gonna need some good old-fashioned elbow grease to get shiny, you hear?” Larry tells him as he turns around and promptly places Excalibur into Merlin’s waiting hands.

Merlin’s heart stops.

It’s like he’s been handed a bolt of lightning. Because it _is_ Excalibur, undoubtedly— the legendary magical sword, forged in a dragon’s breath, to be wielded solely by the One True King of Albion yada yada yada— though of course no one would realize it unless they were magic, too, because at first glance, the years have not been kind to this sword. Or maybe it’s disguised itself, like Merlin has, letting itself rust along its edges, its inscription and Druid symbols muddied beneath a layer of grime, so that it would be dismissed by unworthy passersby, until it ended up in this prop closet in godforsaken Orlando, Florida. 

But it is Excalibur. Merlin knows this sword better than anybody, save one. 

Excalibur recognizes Merlin immediately too, of course, its magic shooting up Merlin’s fingers and arms and through his torso until it fills his whole body with staticky pins and needles, like his limbs had been numb for years and now they’re finally waking up. He can’t fight it— tears spring to his eyes, and he grips the blade so tightly the rusted edges start biting into his palms, but Excalibur would never let him hurt himself— if anything, the circle of magic surrounding them tightens, like the sword is trying to hold him, too. Like it missed him, too.

“Where did you get this?” he hears himself ask, faintly, and Larry hums, already brushing past Merlin to get back to whatever it is Larry does on a daily basis. 

“Most of our props come from a mass costume company dealio, but our old boss— before this current guy— was a bit of an enthusiast, and he liked to pop into estate sales and shit every now and then. That’s probably a reject from the Lady of the Lakes folks, but it was here long before I arrived, and I’ve been here for longer than you’ve been alive,” Larry huffs, and Merlin can only offer a weak smile. Oh, if only Larry knew. 

Obviously Merlin can’t let the Green Knight use _fucking Excalibur_ in the show that night, so he’ll have to conjure up a duplicate once Larry’s back is turned, and smuggle the real Excalibur into his locker until he can get it safely back to his flat. 

Merlin hears more than sees Larry leave, before he swipes a soothing thumb over the hilt. God, it must have been lonely in that closet for so long. 

“It’s alright, mate. You’re not alone anymore,” he murmurs, and the sword positively _glows._

Gwaine shows up the next day. 

“I think I was brought back just to get you the hell out of this place,” is the first thing the knight— the _real_ knight— tells him, once Merlin’s done hugging the daylights out of him for a solid five minutes. Gwaine had squeezed him back just as tightly, though, and even when they pull away he keeps a bruising grip on Merlin’s forearm, which Merlin’s not planning on shaking off anytime soon. 

They’re both crying, of course. They’re backstage mid-afternoon show, where Gwaine had bought a ticket and snuck through the first employees-only door he’d found. 

Gwaine was apparently over working as Gaston in the Magic Kingdom, which is how he got to Merlin so quickly. Turns out he’d felt the same call to Florida that Merlin had, only he hadn’t known _why_ until the moment Merlin and Excalibur were reunited, whereupon all of his memories had hurtled back so fast they'd knocked him on his ass on his parade float, terrifying Belle nearby. After icing his head— and his ass— he’d asked for a day off and raced down to Medieval Times. 

And now he’s here. Flesh and blood and alive, and Merlin’s honestly half-torn between being over-the-moon ecstatic and being so freaked out that he’s a second from passing out, or throwing up, or both. He’s terrified this is a dream he’s going to wake up from any moment and find himself back in bed, beneath his awful scratchy sheets, or maybe even knocked out on the couch after a night drinking himself into oblivion, as he is ashamed to say he is wont to do. Leave off— _you_ try living for a millennia and see how you get on. 

_“How?”_ he asks for a fiftieth time, and Gwaine gives another watery laugh.

“You’re the bloody wizard, mate, you tell me. _Which”_ —he slugs Merlin not-quite-gently in the shoulder with his free hand— “You could have _told me,_ you prat.”

That’s another thing Merlin’s trying to grapple with— apparently, as Gwaine has just informed him, his big secret of being a sorcerer wasn’t as big a secret as he’d thought. The knights of the Round Table apparently were all perfectly aware of his true nature, and had been helping him keep that secret from the king for years. Which is how Gwaine is currently so calm about the whole _reincarnated medieval knight_ thing. 

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” Merlin says again, and maybe the apology sounds a little too desperate, because Gwaine’s eyes soften and he pulls Merlin into another bone-crushing hug.

“It’s okay, Merlin. I’m here, I’m back. You’re not alone anymore.”

Merlin’s last string of composure snaps and he sobs into Gwaine’s shoulder. Perry lets him go home early, and doesn’t even ask why Gwaine is in a guest-restricted zone. 

“I have a feeling I’m just the first,” Gwaine tells him the next morning, from his sprawl on Merlin’s couch. Merlin’s already placed an order for an air mattress— he and Gwaine have reached a silent agreement that even though Gwaine has a flat and two roommates of his own, they’re not letting each other out of their sight for a good long while.

Merlin hands him a coffee mug and exhales shakily. He hadn’t slept all night, fearful of what visions would come if he did, or worse, what visions would _not_ come. But he knows Gwaine is right: his reunion with Excalibur had awoken more than just his own nerve endings. It was like that scene in _Pirates of the Caribbean—_ that first touch had sent a ripple through the universe, and now Excalibur— restored to its original form and sparkly as a new penny on Merlin’s (round, which had made Gwaine cackle) kitchen table— is a homing beacon to the world’s undead legends. Both friend and foe. 

“Then we better be ready,” he says. 

Gwaine comes with him to work that day— “I’m an actor in this life, if you can believe it. I think it was the only way I could think of to hit someone with a sword and not get arrested.” —and sweet-talks Perry, as only Sir Gwaine can, into letting him audition for the newly up-for-grabs part of the Green Knight, since the old one was fired for aforementioned incompetence with a blade (and again, Merlin swears he can almost hear the Fates cackling).

Naturally, he gets the job on the spot. He’ll keep his Gaston shifts for the mornings— even though he hates that the mouse overlord makes him shave his beard— but in the evenings he’ll be right here with Merlin, and Merlin can’t stop grinning for the rest of his shift. 

Gwaine becomes an instant crowd favorite, as Merlin knew he would. But even though there’s a small gaggle of girls (and their moms) who wait for him outside the employee entrance when the late shows finish, Gwaine never takes their phone numbers or come-ons beyond face value. At first Merlin wonders why, until it’s time for Merlin to hand out the little carnations the knights throw to screaming dinner guests, and Gwaine gives him a wink and a kiss on the cheek before he hops onto his horse and canters through the curtains. It becomes a nightly thing, and Merlin always returns it with an obligatory roll of his eyes, but he can’t quite smother his blush, too. He knows Gwaine is only doing this because Arthur’s not around and therefore he can get away with it, but following that train of thought lies danger, so Merlin ignores it and readies the props for the next act. 

Arthur. They don’t talk about him, except that they do. They certainly talk about everything else, if not the man himself. In the evenings over late dinners and between Netflix marathons, they trade stories of the old days, almost frenziedly, like they’re trying to convince themselves those adventures really did happen by receiving the other’s confirmation. Like, they’re flesh and blood, but it’s just the two of them and a magical sword, and it’s been so, so impossibly long, and it’s _magic_ and _legends_ and _is it real? Is this real?_ But they can reach out and find that flesh and blood beneath their fingers, and Merlin’s eyes definitely glow gold when he’s too lazy to put the kettle on, so it must be real. It has to be real. 

And all the while they’re waiting for the doors to open and another long lost friend to walk through, so that’s how things carry on for a while, until the day one of the horses goes mad. 

She’s not _actually_ gone mad, of course: there’s just a stone lodged in her hoof that no one can get out— or close enough to try and get out— and she’s clearly in pain, braying and pacing woundedly around her stall. 

It’s early in the morning, so Gwaine’s still in Fantasyland and can’t lend a hand, and the stablehands seem to have no idea what to do since they’re mostly just Animal Kingdom and SeaWorld rejects, so Merlin barges into the stall himself, replaying all the times Uther’s stallion had tried to murder him and thinking it can’t be bad as that. 

Only it is. The mare rears back and kicks out, narrowly missing one of Merlin’s ears, and her next kick would have landed squarely on his collarbone and he’d have to either wear an awful cast for who knows how long or come up with a really good non-magical explanation for how he’d healed so fast, when a hand shoots out and grabs her reins, wrangling her backwards and giving Merlin enough time to scramble out of the way to safety. He spins to thank his rescuer, and—

It’s Percival.

It’s Percival who soothes the mare back down, who murmurs to her and helps keep her steady as Merlin casts a quiet spell to free the stone and alleviate her pain, and once she’s securely back in her stall with a bucket of oats, it’s Percival who hugs Merlin even tighter than Gwaine had.

“Nice to finally save _you_ for a change,” he tells Merlin, and Merlin laughs, and it feels genuine for the first time in a long, long time. 

Percival moves in with them, of course, and his reunion with Gwaine is even more dramatic and tearful than it had been with Merlin. If Gwaine stops winking at Merlin over every carnation after that, neither of them mention it. Merlin makes meals with his friends and tells jokes and stories, and his heart feels both lighter and heavier inside his chest, like it’s his own stone inside his ribs, with a sword stabbed through it, aching to be freed. 

Of course Perry had appeared after Merlin and Percival had helped the horse, but Percival— still just as beefy as the last time Merlin had seen him— turned down Perry’s offer to fire the Blue Knight for him, but he was happy to accept a face-painting booth in the lobby. Apparently he’s an art student in this life, and he likes painting the guests to look like elves and fairies and princes and princesses. 

Frankly, it’s not even surprising when Leon arrives a couple weeks later. Perry gives him the Red-and-Yellow Knight role basically the second they shake hands, and Merlin thinks that’s probably only because Perry can’t give him his own job. Leon just has that natural air of authority, even a thousand years later. 

Then Gwen and Elyan appear not three days after, siblings in this new life, too. Merlin gets Gwen a job in costuming, and by this point he’s wondering if Perry is getting suspicious about all these Brits with unusual names suddenly appearing in his dinner theater, but when Merlin cautiously broaches the subject of getting Elyan his old merch booth, Perry only grins— more than a little maniacally. 

“We’re gonna have the most realistic Medieval Times on the whole East Coast,” Perry declares, already typing wildly on his phone, probably to his friends and enemies at the other theme parks. _“Fuck_ those Epcot jerks.” 

Sometimes Merlin lets himself imagine the reaction if he revealed to Perry that his newest employees were actually reincarnations of ancient legendary figures, but sometimes he wonders if there’d be a change at all. Perry’d probably just nod and invite them out for a beer.

And all the while Merlin’s blood is rushing in his ears, because everything feels a bit like a ticking time bomb. Even Excalibur, waiting patiently on Merlin’s kitchen table, seems to gleam a little brighter each day, promising the coming of _something,_ and Merlin prays through each sleepless night that it’s some _one._

As part of the show, he gets a few complimentary tickets for friends and family. He always leaves one on reserve at the front booth, and when he’s not needed backstage, he’s up in the stands, scanning the dimly lit crowds, or staring fixedly at the door, hoping against hope for that someone to appear. 

What he gets instead is Lancelot. 

The show’s falconer gets arrested for alligator trafficking, so Perry, clutching a furious-looking falcon’s cage, corners Merlin backstage.

“I know you said you didn’t want to perform, but we really need someone. It’d be just for a few shows, till I find a new guy. I’m assuming you know how to do this, too, that is.”

Merlin sighs, but he’s smiling, and when he unlocks the cage door and holds out his arm, the falcon flies to him immediately. “You’re not wrong.” 

All his friends come to watch his opening night, joining the feasting crowd or peeking their heads around the curtains, and it is bizarre beyond words to have this many pairs of eyes on him after so many years doggedly clinging to the shadows. But even he has to admit that it’s a little thrilling, too. He can’t show off, per se, but maybe he can give it a bit of ye olde _Merlin_ flair. 

_Besides, you dollop,_ an achingly familiar voice teases in his head, _you best get used to it sooner than later._

So Merlin whispers a bastardized dragonspeak command to the falcon and the bird soars in a dazzling routine of twists and arcs, and the _oohs_ and _ahhs_ echo through the cavernous theater. If Merlin gives him a little extra sparkle, well, that’s Merlin’s business. Everyone’s fixated on the bird, after all. No one to see the gold flash in his gaze. 

But then the falcon swoops over the far end of the arena, the spotlight following his arc, and that’s when something— a flicker of light, a movement, he’s not sure— catches Merlin’s eye, just beneath the tip of the falcon’s wing. He recognizes the eyes staring back at him in a heartbeat, and he’s grinning for the rest of his act, and the rest of the show, and after, all the way into Lancelot’s arms. 

Merlin’s flat quickly overcrowds, now they’re (almost) all reunited. He’d order another air mattress, but there’s an unspoken agreement that they’re all just waiting now for that one last puzzle piece to slot into place, and then they’ll all be heading off to face whatever’s next, waving a cheerful good riddance to Florida. 

It’s a rare weekend off, and they’ve ordered takeaway. They’re sprawled across Merlin’s furniture and on pillows on the floor, but there’s a place to Merlin’s right they all unspokenly leave empty. Merlin doesn’t even glance at it— he’s been leaving that place beside him empty for centuries— but the others are shooting him increasingly worried looks as the evening wears on, so there must be something in his face they’re noticing that he’s finally too exhausted to hide. It’s Lancelot, ever the bravest, who brings it up.

“He’ll be here soon as he can, Merlin, I’m sure of it,” he says, reaching across to squeeze Merlin’s knee.

“Maybe we all had to come together first, or maybe he doesn’t have a way to get here,” Leon offers from his spot on the couch, his arms around Gwen, who nods. 

“We’ve shown up quicker, haven’t we? So it’s only a matter of time. Days, even. Hours.”

“Minutes,” Percival agrees. 

“Though this does mean Morgana and Mordred are probably awake, too,” Gwaine says darkly. “So hopefully those are quick minutes, before—” he cuts off when Percival thumps him upside the head. _“Oi!”_

Merlin stares into his noodles. After so many years on his own, he’d stopped imagining when and how his friends would come back. Eventually he stopped believing that they ever would, but that didn’t mean he stopped leaving those empty places, ready to be filled. Now, one by one, they’ve come back, and found each other, and Excalibur on the kitchen table pulses reassuringly at the edge’s of Merlin’s magic. _Minutes,_ it echoes. And whatever’s ahead, they’ll face together. 

_You’re not alone anymore,_ he’d told the sword, and Gwaine had told him. He smiles up at his friends— his family— and thinks he’s finally starting to believe it.

He’s in a rare empty arena, letting the falcon— whom he’s rechristened Archimedes, thank you very much— stretch his wings before the evening’s performance when, behind him, he hears soft footsteps cross the sand.

“I’m guessing you’re going to make us keep this one, too,” a voice says, already weary, but the fondness is impossible to miss. “At least this time it’s smaller than a bloody dragon.”

Merlin closes his eyes for just a moment, before he whistles for Archimedes to come back to his cage. “Aithusa was perfectly house-trained; you never even knew she was there.”

“Until she tried burning down the castle, sure,” Arthur counters, and Merlin doesn’t know why he’s not turning around yet, but his legs have mysteriously turned to lead, grafted to the ground. “Does this one breathe fire? Or are you still training it to do that?”

“He’s a faster learner than you, that’s for certain.” 

“Merlin,” Arthur says, softly, earnestly, and _that’s_ what Merlin needed, because his heart unlocks and the sand releases him, and Merlin turns to face his king, his best friend, his deepest love. 

Arthur, looking as if not a day has passed since Merlin last held him, smiles. And every second Merlin has ever waited is suddenly, completely, and perfectly worth it. 

“There’s an opening for the Red Knight, if you’re interested,” Merlin says, and watches as Arthur’s smile falters and his brow scrunches, confused, until Merlin rambles on, “Since you’re probably a little rusty. There’s no shame in it—” Arthur sends his eyes heavenward with an exasperated sigh, and Merlin’s mouth twitches, but he keeps on even though of course he’s already mentally drafting his letter of resignation and apology to Perry. Though maybe Perry might want to come with them. Who says their merry band of idiots has to be comprised of only long-dead people? “I think Gwaine’s been practicing to take a swing at you, in fact I’m pretty sure he’s been stealing my butter knives—”

“Come on, you dollophead, let’s go,” Arthur says, extending a hand that Merlin’s already reaching out to take. His magic _sings_ in the closing distance between them.

“Or did you want to try serving for a change? You can borrow my uniform, though I might have to let it out a little—”

_“MERLIN”_

Merlin grins, and Arthur grins back, and their fingers tangle together and don’t let go.

**Author's Note:**

> and then they all go reclaim Albion and save the world and live happily ever after.
> 
> it was just too good that the orlando ren faire is called the lady of the lakes faire!!. also casting gwaine as the green knight was COMPLETELY accidental until i was 3k in and suddenly remembered that’s his actual legend lmfao RIP. 
> 
> and yes merlin absolutely did still a falcon from medieval times
> 
> don’t own/profit from merlin, i just miss it with all my heart RIP disclaimers disclaimers


End file.
